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1*Jf*i 



POEMS 



ON 



LAKE COMO 



BY 

JOHN L. STODDARD 

AUTHOR OF 

'THE STODDARD LECTURES," " THE STODDARD LIBRARY," 

"poems," ETC., ETC. 



All rights reserved 



CHICAGO AND BOSTON 

GEO. L. SHUMAN & CO. 

1914 






Copyright, 1914, by 

JOHN L. STODDARD 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 
BOSTON BOOKBINDING CO., CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 



FEB 18 1914 



0~e 

©CI.A369037 



TO THE 
INSPIRING MEMORY 
OF 
PLINY, THE YOUNGER 



PROLOGUE 

We know not what mysterious power 
Lies latent in our words and deeds, — 
Sweet as the perfume of a flower, 
Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds ; 
But something certainly survives 
The passing of our fleeting lives. 

We write, we print, then — nevermore 
To be recalled — our thoughts take flight, 
Like white-winged birds that leave the shore, 
And scattering, lose themselves in light; 
For good or ill those words may be 
The arbiters of destiny. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Prologue v 

The Faun i 

isola comacina . , 4 

The Old Carrier 9 

Evening on Lake Como 14 

Delio Patri 17 

Acqua Fredda 20 

Undine 23 

January in the Tremezzina 26 

The Pagan Past 28 

The Wanderer 30 

Under the Plane Tree 32 

"Conjugi Carissimae" 34 

In November 37 

The Cascade 39 

Bird Slaughter 42 

The Call of the Blood 46 

The Iron Crown 48 

Contrasts 52 

In My Pergola 54 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Evanescence 56 

Lake Como in Autumn 58 

To the Portrait of Napoleon 60 

Passing and Permanent 62 

Tripoli 64 

Leo 71 

Villa Pliniana 75 

Farewell to the Faun 79 

Point Balbianello 83 

Retirement 88 

At Lenno 90 



THE FAUN 

Within my garden's silence and seclusion, 
In pensive beauty gazing toward the dawn, 
There stands, mid vines and flowers in profusion, 
A sculptured Faun. 

The boughs of stately trees are bending o'er him, 
The scent of calycanthus fills the air, 
And on the ivied parapet before him 
Bloom roses fair. 



Beside him laughs the lightly-flowing fountain, 
Beneath him spreads the lake's enchanting hue, 
And, opposite, a sun-illumined mountain 
Meets heaven's blue. 



Across Lake Como's silvered undulation 
The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, 
And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation 
With tender grace. 



2 THE FAUN 

And he, like Memnon, thrilled to exultation, 
As if unable longer to be mute, 
Has lifted to his lips in adoration 
His simple flute. 



Ah ! would that I might hear the music stealing 
From yonder artless reed upon the air, — 
The subtle revelation of his feeling, 

While standing there! 



Perhaps 'tis for the Past that he is sighing, 
When Como's shore held many a hallowed shrine, 
Where such as he were worshipped, — none denying 
Their rights divine. 



That Past is gone ; its sylvan shrines have crumbled ; 
From lake and grove the gentle fauns have fled; 
Its myths are scorned, Olympus has been humbled, 
And Pan is dead. 



Yet still he plays, — the coming day adoring, 
With brow serene, and gladness in his gaze, 
All past and future happiness ignoring 
Just for to-day's! 



THE FAUN 3 

Sweet Faun, whence comes thy power of retaining 
Through storm and sunshine thine unchanging smile? 
Forsaken thus, what comfort, still remaining, 
Makes life worth while? 



Impart to me the secret of discerning 
The gold of life, with none of its alloy, 
That I may also satisfy my yearning 
For perfect joy! 

I too would shun those questions, born of sorrow, — 
Life's Wherefore, Whence and Whither; I would fill 
My cup with present bliss, and let to-morrow 
Bring what it will. 

O Spirit of the vanished world elysian, 
Cast over me the spell of thy control, 
And give me, for to-day's supernal vision, 
Thy Pagan soul! 



ISOLA COMACINA 

(The only Island on Lake Como, the Lake Larius of 
the Romans) 

There sleeps beneath Italian skies 
A lovely island rich in fame, 
In days of old a longed-for prize, 
And bearing still an honored name, — 
A spot renowned from age to age, 
An ancient Roman heritage; 

A valued stronghold, for whose sake 

Unnumbered men have fought and died, — 

The Malta of the Larian lake, 

Forever armed and fortified, 

To Como's shores the master-key, 

The guardian of its liberty. 

Half hidden in a sheltered bay, 
Where tiny skiffs at anchor ride, 
How different is the scene to-day 
Reflected in its waveless tide, 



ISOLA COMACINA 

From that which this historic foss 
Showed mailed soldiers of the Cross! 

Yet still, across the narrow strait, 
Some remnants of the hospice stand, 
Whose ever hospitable gate 
Met pilgrims from the Holy Land, 
Its finely carved, millennial tower 
Enduring to the present hour. 

One gem alone doth Como wear, 
None other need adorn her breast ; 
Tis this, her emerald solitaire, 
Her unique island of the blest, — 
The star beside her crescent shore, 
A thing of beauty evermore. 

On Comacina's peaceful strand 
The coldest heart is moved to pray, 
As softly steals o'er lake and land 
The splendor of departing day, 
And scores of snowy peaks aspire 
To sparkle with supernal fire. 

Then Lario paints for liquid miles 

The white-robed monarchs' glittering crowns, 



ISOLA COMACINA 

Transmutes at once to dimpled smiles 
The sternest of their glacial frowns, 
And often holds, with subtlest art, 
Some Titan's likeness to her heart. 



Fair Comacina, through whose trees 
Earth's feathered songsters flit unharmed, 
Where soft-eyed cattle graze at ease, 
And every whispering breeze seems charmed, 
Can it be true that human blood 
Hath ever stained thy limpid flood? 



Alas ! too often, drenched with gore, 
Thy cliffs have witnessed deadly strife, 
When hostile feet profaned thy shore, 
And each advancing step cost life, 
As prince and peasant, side by side, 
Beat back the Goths' invading tide. 



But why disturb the silent past? 

Why rouse the island's sleeping ghosts? 

Or see in forms by ruins cast 

The phantoms of those warlike hosts? 

For centuries the gentle waves 

Have rolled oblivion o'er their graves. 



ISOLA COMACINA 

And what will now thy future be, 
Thou pristine refuge of the brave, 
Which Rome's last heroes fought to free, 
And .vainly gave their lives to save ? 
Forget not, thou wast once a gem 
That graced a Caesar's diadem ! 

Wilt thou fulfil my fondest hopes? 
I sometimes long to check the stream 
Of tourists hurrying by thy slopes, 
And tell them of my cherished dream, — 
To see upon thy storied height 
A palace worthy of the site ; 

Not meaningless, not merely vast, 
Nor crudely modern in design, 
But something suited to thy past, — 
For highest art a hallowed shrine, 
A classic home of long ago, 
The Tusculum of Cicero. 

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume, 

Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall, 

And, scattered through the leafy gloom 

Of olive-groves and laurels tall, 

Shall many a marble nymph and faun 

Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn. 



ISOLA COMACINA 

So let me dream! I may not see 
That stately palace crown thy brow, 
Those roses may not bloom for me, 
But, as thou art, I love thee now, 
Content thy future to resign 
To abler portraiture than mine. 

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well ! 
Across the water's placid breast 
The music of the vesper-bell 
Invites me to my port of rest; 
Fair jewel of this inland sea, 
May all the gods be good to thee! 



THE OLD CARRIER 

("Old Lucia", who for many years walked back 
and forth, every day and in all weathers, between 
Azzano and Menaggio, a distance of six miles, bear- 
ing merchandise of all sorts in a basket on her back, 
fell to the ground exhausted, as she was nearing her 
poor home on Christmas Eve, 1907. She died next 
morning at the age of seventy-three. At the time she 
fell, she was carrying a load of nearly one hundred 
pounds!) 



Patient toiler on the road, 
Bending 'neath your heavy load, 
Worn and furrowed is your face, 
Slow and tremulous your pace, 
Yet you still pursue your way, 
Bearing burdens day by day, 
With the same pathetic smile, 
Over many a weary mile, 
As you bravely come and go 
To and from Menaggio. 



THE OLD CARRIER 

Snowy white, your scanty hair 
Crowns a forehead seamed with care, 
And a look of suffering lies 
In your clear-blue, wistful eyes; 
While your thin and ashen cheek 
Tells the tale you will not speak, 
Of a lodging dark and old, 
And a hearth so bare and cold 
That you often hungry go 
To and from Menaggio. 



Never know you days of rest; 

Ceaseless is your humble quest 

Of the pittance that you ask 

For your arduous daily task. 

Every morning sees your form 

Pass through sunshine or through storm; 

Every evening hears your feet 

Trudging up the darkened street; 

For your gait is always slow, 

Coming from Menaggio. 



Once your dull eyes gleamed with light; 
Once those arms were round and white; 
And the feet, now roughly shod, 
Lightly danced upon the sod, 



THE OLD CARRIER 

As to womanhood you grew 
And a lover's rapture knew ; 
For you once were fair, 'tis said, 
Early wooed and early wed, 
And your husband long ago 
Died in old Menaggio. 



Children ? Aye, but not one cares 
How the poor old mother fares! 
You must struggle on alone; 
They have children of their own, 
And for them, devoid of shame, 
All your scanty earnings claim ! 
Can you walk? Then go you must, 
Plodding on through rain and dust, 
Summer heat and winter's snow 
To and from Menaggio! 



Christmas Eve ! Through glistening green 
Gleams a merry, festive scene; 
Trees, with candles burning bright, 
Wake in children's hearts delight. 
Where such peace and comfort reign, 
None observes the window-pane, 
Where your wan face sadly peers 
Through a mist of falling tears 



THE OLD CARRIER 

At a joy you never know, 
Carrier from Menaggio ! 



Much that makes those children gay 
You have brought them day by day, 
Thankful that you thus could earn 
Wood to make your hearthstone burn. 
Not for you such food and light, 
Clothing warm and candles bright! 
You are grateful, if you gain 
Bread to stifle hunger's pain. 
Ah ! it was not always so 
In old-time Menaggio ! 



She has turned to climb the hill. 
Stay ! why lies she there so still ? 
Have her old limbs failed at last 
In the chilling wintry blast? 
Since for threescore years and ten 
She has done the work of men, 
'Tis not strange that she should fall 
Weak and helpless by the wall, 
Nevermore to come and go 
To and from Menaggio. 



THE OLD CARRIER 13 

Gently lift her old gray head ! 
Bear her homeward ! She is dead. 
Fallen, like a faithful horse 
At the limit of its course ; 
Fallen on the stony road, 
Uncomplaining, 'neath her load; 
And the heart within her breast 
For the first time finds its rest, — 
Rest that it could never know 
Coming from Menaggio! 

Sound again, O Christmas bells ! 

" Peace on Earth " your song foretells. 

It has come, in truth, to one 

Whose long pilgrimage is done. 

Merciful her quick release, 

Blessed her eternal peace ! 

Yet I know that, day by day, 

As she no more comes my way, 

I shall miss her, as I go 

To and from Menaggio. 



EVENING ON LAKE COMO 

Beside my garden's ivied wall, 
Enwreathed in vines of gold and green, 
I stand, as evening shadows fall, 
And marvel at the matchless scene, 
While wavelets make, with rhythmic beat, 
Perpetual music at my feet. 

The year grows old, — yet on the breeze 
Still floats the perfume of the rose ; 
Still gleams the gold of orange trees, 
Regardless of the Alpine snows ; 
For while, above, Frost reigns as king, 
Below prevails the warmth of Spring. 



In Tremezzina's sheltered bay 
The wintry storms forget to rave; 
Without, — the white caps and the spray, 
Within, — a shore with scarce a wave, — 
A favored spot where tempests cease, 
And Heaven whispers, " Here is Peace." 



EVENING ON LAKE COMO 15 

Across the water's purple bloom 
Bellagio, bathed in sunset light, 
Surmounts the twilight's gathering gloom 
With glistening walls of pink and white, — 
The wraith of some celestial strand, 
The fringe of an enchanted land. 

My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings 
Its good-night lyric to the lake ; 
A skiff glides by on slender wings 
With scarce a ripple in its wake ; 
And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, 
Float idly in an ideal world. 

The swan-like steamers come and go ; 
The ruffled water finds its rest ; 
The snow-peaks catch a ruddy glow 
From crimsoned cloudlets in the west; 
And, trembling on the tranquil air, 
Steals forth the vesper-call to prayer. 

Oh, peerless strand ! I yearn no more 
To mingle with the maddened throng ; 
Enough for me this wave-kissed shore, 
The vesper-bell, the fountain's song, 
The sunlit sail, the Alpine glow, 
And storied towers of long ago. 



16 EVENING ON LAKE COMO 

Between me and the world's unrest 
The lake's broad leagues of water lie; 
Above my wave-protected nest 
Serenely bends a cloudless sky ; 
And homeward from life's stormy sea 
The dreams of youth come back to me* 



DELIO PATRI 

(Inscription on an altar-fragment, found on the 
Island of Lake Como, 19 10, and belonging formerly 
to a temple of Delian Apollo, — the " Delian Father," 
— which no doubt existed there) 

Once more Lake Como's storied isle 

Reveals the Roman past ! 
Again a stone of classic style 

The spade hath upward cast; 
How can such relics thus endure 
Two thousand years of sepulture? 

More eagerly than those who toil 

For nuggets of mere gold, 
We seize and rescue from the soil 

This monument of old, — 
An altar- fragment, much defaced, 
Yet on whose surface words are traced. 

With reverent hands we cleanse from grime 

The legend chiselled there, 
Which now, triumphant over time, 

Still proves the sculptor's care, 



DELIO PATRI 

Engraved when on this wave-girt hill 
The Pagan gods were potent still. 

As on their own peculiar page 

The fingers of the blind 
Decipher truths of every age, 

As mind communes with mind, 
So, one by one, these letters spell 
A name the ancient world knew well. 

For " Delio Patri " heads the lines 
Inscribed upon this stone, 

And instantly the mind divines 
What, else, had been unknown, 

Since that familiar name makes clear 

Apollo once was worshipped here; 

Perhaps because the spot suggests 

That other tiny isle, 
Upon whose shore forever rests 

The Sun-God's tender smile, — 
Fair Delos, where, one fabled morn, 
Both he and Artemis were born. 

Beneath, the donor's name is placed, 

And lower still we read 
In characters, now half effaced, 

The motive for his deed ; — 



DELIO PATRI 19 

u Onesimus this altar reared 
To One he gratefully revered." 

Faith, grateful reverence, — these are traits 

Worth more than rank or fame, 
And what this brief inscription states 

Does honor to his name, 
And makes us wish still more to know 
Of him who built here long ago. 

" And is this all ? " the cynic sneers, 

"The remnant of a shrine?" 
Alas for him who never hears 

Or heeds the world divine 
And in this fragment fails to see 
A stepping-stone to Deity! 



The Sun-God's shrines in ruins lie, 
But not the glorious sun! 

A thousand transient faiths may die, 
All prototypes of One, 

Since under every form and name 

Their essence still remains the same. 



ACQUA FREDDA 

By Acqua Fredda's cloister-wall 
I pause to feel the mountain breeze, 
And watch the shadows eastward fall 
From immemorial cypress trees. 

Like arms outstretched to bless and pray, 
Those dusky phantoms downward creep 
To where, by Lenno's curving bay, 
The peaceful village seems to sleep; 

While mirrored peaks of stainless snow 
Turn crimson 'neath the farther shore, 
And here and there the sunset glow 
Threads diamonds on a dripping oar. 

But now a tremor breaks the spell, 
And stirs to life the languid air, — 
It is the convent's vesper-bell, — 
The plaintive call to evening prayer; 

That prayer which rises like a sigh 
From every sorrow-laden breast, 



ACQUA FREDDA 

When twilight dims the garish sky, 
And day is dying in the west. 

Ave Maria ! we who miss 
A mother's love, a mother's care, 
Implore thee, bring us to that bliss 
We fondly hope with thee to share ! 

How sweet and clear, how soft and low 
Those vesper orisons are sung, 
In Rome's grand speech of long ago, 
Forever old, forever young ! 

And those who chant, — that exiled band, 
Expelled from France with scorn and hate, 
How fare they in this foreign land ? 
Is life for them disconsolate? 

Have they escaped the sight of pain, 
Of social strife, of hopeless tears? 
Does life's dark problem grow more plain, 
As pass in prayer the tranquil years? 

I know not ; dare not ask of them ; 
Their souls are read by God alone ; 
But he who would their lives condemn, 
Should pause before he cast a stone. 



ACQUA FREDDA 

So full is life of hate and greed, 
So vain the world's poor tinselled show, 
What wonder that some souls have need 
To flee from all its sin and woe? 



I would not join them ; yet, in truth, 
I feel, in leaving them at prayer, 
That something precious of my youth, 
Long lost to me, is treasured there. 



UNDINE 

Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call 
Murmurs caressingly under my wall, 
Why are thy feet, though the hour be late, 
Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate? 
What is the cause of this passionate strain, 
Voiced by thy wavelets again and again? 

Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn, 
Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn ; 
White, on the rocks of the fountain below, 
Glistens her form, like a statue of snow; 
Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call, 
Sung so alluringly under my wall. 

Leaf -woven ladders of ivy- wreathed vines 
Fall from the rampart in undulant lines; 
Silken and slender, they swing in the breeze, 
Tempting the lover to clamber with ease 
Up to the garden, to woo and to take 
Lovely Undine away to the lake. 



24 UNDINE 

Boldly Love's wavelets now leap to the land, 
Swiftly they scale every tremulous strand, 
Lightly they sway with the wavering screen, 
White gleam their feet on its background of green ; 
Yet the old parapet, mossy and gray, 
Never is reached by their glittering spray. 

Hear you that music, half song and half sigh ? 
Sylph-like Undine is making reply: — 
" Though I so motionless sit here above, 
I am not deaf to thy pleadings of love; 
Others regard me as passionless stone, 
Only to thee shall my nature be known. 

" Men who behold me, praise merely my art, 
Never suspecting I too have a heart; 
Under the marble the world cannot see 
All I am keeping there only for thee ; 
Secrets of love are of all the most sweet; 
Mine I will whisper to thee when we meet. 

" Under the wall thou hast bravely assailed, 
Under the vines, where thy wavelets have failed, 
Passes this fountain; though cradled in snows, 
Straight to thy waters it secretly flows ; 
Leaving my cold, marble counterpart here, 
On that swift current I come to thee, dear ! " 



UNDINE 25 

Hushed is the lover's importunate call; 
Silence and mystery brood over all; 
Still my Undine sits facing the dawn ; 
'Tis but a mask, for her spirit is gone, — 
Gone on that crystalline path to the deep, 
Lured there to ecstasy, lulled there to sleep. 



JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA 

Day by day, 

As if in May, 
We sail Azzano's beautiful bay; 

High and low 

The mountains show 
Luminous fields of stainless snow, 
But the air is soft, and the sun is warm, 
And the lake is free from wind and storm. 

Far and nigh, 

Deep and high, 
The Alps invade both lake and sky; 

Base to base 

Their forms we trace, 
These in water, those in space, — 
Duplicate peaks on single shores, 
As shadow sinks, and substance soars. 

To and fro 

We idly go, 
Bidding our oarsmen lightly row; 



JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA 27 

Here and there 

Halting where 
The vision seems supremely fair; 
Happy to let our little boat 
In a flood of opaline splendor float. 



Far away 

Seems to-day 
The clamorous world of work and play; 

Ours indeed 

A different creed 
From that of the modern god of Speed, 
Whose converts suffer such grievous waste 
In strenuous labor and feverish haste! 

East or west, 

A tranquil nest, 
When curfew rings, is always best, 

A landscape fair, 

A volume rare, 
And a kindred heart, one's peace to share, — 
What is there better from life to take 
In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake ? 



THE PAGAN PAST 

What sylvan god was worshipped here? 
What nymph once made this grove her home, 
And bathed within its fountain clear, 
When Caesar ruled the world at Rome ? 

Did Pan frequent this charming site, 
So hidden from the haunts of men? 
Did nymphs and satyrs dance at night 
Within this moon-illumined glen? 

Ah, who can doubt it, when these vines 
Form trellised screens for distant snow, 
And trace in arabesque designs 
Their profiles on the Alpine glow ? 

So sure were Dryads to select 
A region thus supremely fair! 
So apt were mortals to erect 
In such a place a shrine for prayer ! 

The two millenniums have not brought 
Diminished splendor to this bay; 
The strand which Pliny loved and sought 
Is no less beautiful to-day. 



THE PAGAN PAST 29 

Hence, while the fragrant rose-leaves fall, 
And white magnolia-blossoms gleam 
Above my wave-lapped garden wall, 
I seem to see, as in a dream, 

The kneeling forms of those who laid 
Their floral offerings on that shrine, 
And here their grateful tribute paid 
To beauty, rightly deemed divine. 

Doth some Divinity each morn 

Cast over me its ancient spell, 

That this sweet landscape seems forlorn 

Without the gods who loved it well? 

Men tell me they are dead and gone, 
But when my soul is moved to pray, 
I feel, beside my sculptured Faun, 
They are not very far away. 

For I, who love this classic lake, 
And cruise along its storied shores, 
See Roman galleys in my wake, 
And hear the stroke of phantom oars. 

It matters not which way I steer, 
Or if my course be slow or fast, 
The Pagan world seems always near ; 
I sail, companioned by the Past. 



THE WANDERER 

Wandering minstrel at my gate, 
Shivering in the winter gloaming, 
How appalling seems your fate, — 
Destined to be always roaming, 
Singing for a bit of bread 
And a shelter for your head ! 



Your sweet voice is all you own, 

Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, 

And you are not quite alone, 

For a dog your crust is sharing; 

Yet o'er many a weary mile 

You have brought .... a song and smile i 



I, who have abundant land, 
Home with comforts beyond measure, 
Gardens, loggias, and a strand 
Where a boat awaits my pleasure, 
Wonder what would be your story, 
Were I tramp, and you signore! 



THE WANDERER 3i 

Would you weary of control? 
Long to slip your gilded tether, 
And with Leo once more stroll, 
Heedless of the wind and weather? 
You could hardly do that all, 
Once ensconced behind my wall. 

Every one must make a choice, 
Life is based on compensation; 
You have nothing but your voice, 
I have more, . . . but more vexation! 
Minstrel, you at least are free ; 
Give your smile to slaves like me! 



UNDER THE PLANE TREE 

Under my wall 

And plane-tree tall 
The lake's blue wavelets rise and fall; 

In they creep, 

Out they sweep, 
And ever their rhythmic measure keep. 
As the light breeze over the water steals, 
And fills the sails of a score of keels. 

Soft and low, 

In the evening glow, 
Murmurs the fountain's ceaseless flow; 

Clear and sweet, 

Fair and fleet, 
It came from the mountain, the lake to meet, 
And here, where ivy and roses twine, 
Streamlet and lake their lives combine. 

One by one, 
In shade or sun, 
Each river of life its course must run ; 



UNDER THE PLANE TREE 33 

Slow or fast, 

Small or vast, 
All come to the waiting sea at last, — 
The source from which they first arose, 
The home in which they find repose. 



"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" 

Marble fragment, freed at last 
From thy prison of the past, 
By a spade-thrust brought to light 
After centuries of night, — 
Let me take thee in my hand, 
And thy legend understand. 

On thy mutilated face 

It is difficult to trace 

All that once was graven here ; 

But at least two words are clear, — 

Reading still, as all agree, 

"Conjugi Carissimae. ,, 

" To my well-beloved wife " ; — 
Only this; but of her life, 
Rank or title, age or name, 
Or the place from which she came, 
Nothing further can be known 
Than is taught us by this stone. 



"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" 35 

Touching words they are, which tell 

Of a husband's last farewell; 

Cry of a despairing heart 

That has seen a wife depart 

On death's dark, uncharted sea; — 

" Conjugi Carissimae ! " 

Was this lady still a bride, 
Or a matron, when she died ? 
Had she children? Was she fair? 
Bright with joy, or bowed with care? 
Ah, pathetic mystery! 
" Conjugi Carissimae." 

Yet, in truth, what matters all, 
Save the fact these words recall? 
She was loved, — a consort mourned 
In the home she had adorned; 
And her husband long ago 
Left the words which tell us so. 

Strange, that these alone remain, — 
Words of mingled love and pain! 
Time, which broke or blurred the rest, 
Tenderly has spared the best; 
For what better could there be? 
"Conjugi Carissimae." 



36 "CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" 

Ancient relic, white and pure, 
May thine epitaph endure, 
While the lake with dimpled smile 
Mirrors this historic isle! 
Precious are thy words of old, 
Worthy of a script of gold! 

Soon upon this island's shrine 
Shalt thou like a jewel shine, — 
Dearest of its treasure-trove, 
Emblem of a deathless love 
From its sepulchre set free, — 
"Conjugi Carissimae." 



IN NOVEMBER 

Under my trees of green and gold 

I stroll in the soft, autumnal days, 

With never a hint of winter's cold, 

Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze 

Which spreads from the gleaming lake below 

To gild the edge of the distant snow. 

Closed are the stately inns once more ; 
Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest ; 
Many have gone to a southern shore, 
Some to the east and some to the west ; 
But the smiling landlords count their gains, 
And we know well that the best remains. 



For the walls are lined with precious books, 
And the hearth and home are always here, 
And the garden hath a score of nooks, 
Where flowers bloom throughout the year; 
And now that the restless crowd is gone 
I hear the flute of my rustic Faun. 



38 IN NOVEMBER 

Why should I grieve, if from my trees 
The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one? 
Through the clearer space with greater ease 
I feel the warmth of the genial sun; 
And though the plane-trees stand bereft, 
The pines and cypresses are left. 

Does the gay world leave us ? Well, good-bye ! 

It will come again — perhaps too soon ! 

We have the mountains, lake, and sky, 

And solitude is a precious boon. 

Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet, — ■■ 

Their memory, after all, is sweet. 



THE CASCADE 

From the mountain gray 

It has made its way 
To my garden green and cool, 

And there, from the edge 

Of a rocky ledge 
Leaps down to a crystal pool. 

With a plunging flash 

It falls, to dash 
That crystal into foam; 

And then at a bound 

Slips under ground 
To the lake, — its final home. 



In the morning light, 

In the silent night, 
When the moonlight gems the scene, 

It laughs and sings, 

And a light spray flings 
O'er stately walls of green. 



4 o THE CASCADE 

For in and out, 

And round about, 
Grow flowers, plants, and trees, 

From the lowly moss 

To the boughs that toss 
Their leaves in the passing breeze. 

On its outer zone 

Of massive stone 
Two marble statues stand, — 

The silver sheen 

Of the pool between, — 
One form on either hand. 

One of the pair 

Is a woman fair, 
With parted, smiling lips; 

For her each hour 

A honied flower, 
And she the bee that sips. 

The other, a faun, 

From whom is gone 
The power to frankly smile; 

For whom each day, 

As it drags away, 
Makes life still less worth while. 



THE CASCADE 41 

The face of the one 

Is like the sun, 
With its warmth, and light, and cheer; 

But the faun looks down 

With ugly frown, 
And his lips retain a sneer. 

Youth and age, 

Child and sage! 
The former with life unknown; 

The latter burnt 

By lessons learnt, 
With a heart now turned to stone. 

Yet the torrent speeds, 

And never heeds 
The statues' smiles or sneers; 

They come and go, 

But the water's flow 
Has lasted a thousand years. 



BIRD SLAUGHTER 

Poor, little bird ! the chase is ended ; 
No longer hast thou cause for fear; 
Within these walls thou art befriended; 
No sportsmen can molest thee here. 

Without, they doubtless still await thee, 
And scan with eager eyes the sky; 
Sweet, winsome thing ! how can they hate thee ? 
Why should they wish to see thee die? 



So limp and helpless ! wilt thou never 
Recover from thy fear and flight ? 
How breathless was thy last endeavor 
To reach this shelter, when in sight! 

Thou tremblest still, as I approach thee; 
Do I, too, seem like all the rest ? 
Thy timid, liquid eyes reproach me . . . 
Alas! there's blood upon thy breast. 



BIRD SLAUGHTER 43 

Nay, fear not, birdling! let me gently 
Uplift and hold thee in my hand; 
Thou gazest on me so intently, 
Thou must my motive understand. 

Thy downy breast is pierced and bleeding; 
This wing will never rise again; 
In vain thy look, so wild and pleading! 
I cannot cure or ease thy pain. 

Too well the hunters have succeeded; 
Thy little life is ebbing fast; 
My presence now is all unheeded ; 
'Tis over ; . . . thou art dead at last. 

Yet thus, within my garden dying, 
Thy fate hath caused me less regret 
Than that of all thy comrades, lying 
Half dead and mangled in the net ! 

Where are they all, who crossed so gladly 
The lofty Alps to seek the sun? 
Still lives thy mate, to mourn thee sadly, 
Or is her life-course also run? 

Within the voiceless empyrean 
No birds are passing on the breeze; 
No songster lifts its joyous paean, 
And silent stand my empty trees ; 



44 BIRD SLAUGHTER 

For at the base of every mountain, 
Where southward-moving birds repose, 
In every grove, at every fountain, 
Lurk merciless, insatiate foes. 

With cruel craft those foes surround them, 
Ensnaring hundreds in a day, 
Indifferent if they tear and wound them, 
Proud only of the heaps they slay. 

What care these brutes if songs of rapture 
From thrush and lark are no more heard? 
What matter if their modes of capture 
Denude the land of every bird? 

Whole regions, where they once abounded, 
Are now as silent as the tomb ; 
The birds have vanished, — slain or wounded, 
Pursued, by thousands, to their doom. 

Meanwhile, since Earth itself is blighted, 
The Nemesis of Nature wakes; 
Her flawless balance must be righted; 
If Ceres gives, . . . she also takes! 

Still worse, a moral degradation 
Thus cradled, vitiates the race; 
Among the rising generation 
A lust for slaughter grows apace. 



BIRD SLAUGHTER 45 

Even children kill the birds thus captured, — 
And, since none censures or withstands, 
They seize the tiny skulls, enraptured 
To crush them in their blood-smeared hands ! 

See yonder lad with tethered linnet, 
Its frail legs raw from rasping strings! 
A carriage comes, — he flings within it 
The tortured bird ... to sell its wings! 

And oft as it may be rejected, 
The little victim, mad with thirst, 
Is jerked back, well-nigh vivisected, 
Till pain and hunger do their worst. 

Beware, harsh man and heartless woman ! 
Beneath you swells a threatening flood; 
If you and yours remain inhuman, 
It yet may drown you in your blood. 

You smile, and call this sentimental; 
You will not smile in later times! 
For cruelty, so fundamental, 
Already breeds the worst of crimes. 



THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 

Over the water the shadows are creeping, 
Lost are the lights on Bellagio's shore, 
Goddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, 
Only the fountain sings on as before. 

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling, 

Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song, 

Voices of absent ones seem to be calling: — 

" Come to us ! Come ! thou hast waited too long." 



Vainly I call it a childish delusion, 
Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth, 
Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion 
Voices I loved in the land of my birth. 



Ever recurrent, like tides of the ocean, 
Sad are these cadences, reaching my ear, 
Waking within me a mingled emotion, — ■ 
Partly of ecstasy, partly of fear; 



THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 47 

For of the friends who once gathered to greet me 
Many, alas! will await me no more; 
Few are the comrades remaining to meet me, 
Cold are the arms that embraced me before ! 

Over Life's river the shadows are creeping, 
Dim and unknown is the opposite shore, 
But in the fatherland some are still keeping 
Lights in the window and watch at the door. 



THE IRON CROWN 

On the classic shore of Como, 
'Neath a headland steep and bold, 
Which, though leaden at the dawning, 
In the sunset turns to gold, 
Nestles beautiful Varenna, 
Still invested with renown 
By the legend that connects it 
With the Lombards' Iron Crown. 

Far above it on the mountain 
Stands the castle, old and gray, 
With its battlements in ruin 
And its towers in decay; 
But a subtle charm still lingers 
Round that residence sublime, 
And the beauty of its story 
Is triumphant over time. 

As we trace its ancient pavement, 
As we tread its roofless halls, 
How alluring is the figure 
Which this castle still recalls! 



THE IRON CROWN 49 

For 'tis Queen Theodelinda 
Whom its ruined arches frame, 
And the passing breeze seems laden 
With the music of her name. 



As we gaze from ivied ramparts 
On the storied lake below, 
We forget the world about us 
For the world of long ago, 
When the Lombards had descended 
From the mountains to the plain, 
And all Italy lay mourning 
For the thousands of her slain; 

When their brave, ambitious leader, 
Not content to make his home 
By these northern lakes of beauty, 
Had resolved to capture Rome ! 
For no longer could her legions 
His resistless course withstand, 
And the road lay open, southward, 
To the conquest of the land. 

When his valiant host stood ready 
And impatient for the start, 
What reversed their king's decision ? 
What so changed the warlord's heart ? 



5 o THE IRON CROWN 

'Twas the passionate entreaty 
Of his wife, — a Christian queen; 
'Twas the conquest of the pagan 
By the lowly Nazarene. 

Through her prayers Rome's aged Pontiff 
From the threatened doom was freed; 
By her aid the Church was strengthened 
As the king professed its creed; 
And Saint Peter's great successor, 
Thus preserved from grievous loss, 
Gave to her, his faithful daughter, 
A true relic of the Cross. 

What to pious Theodelinda 
Could be recompense more sweet 
Than the nail, forever sacred, 
That once pierced her Saviour's feet ? 
Which, when rounded to a circlet, 
(To fine wire beaten down,) 
Then became the precious basis 
Of the Lombards' Iron Crown. 

Through the ages that have followed 
What a line of the Renowned 
Have been proud to wear this emblem, 
As they, each in turn, were crowned ! 



THE IRON CROWN 51 

Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, 
German Kaisers by the score, 
And at last poor King- Umberto, 
Basely slain at Monza's door! 

Since that coronet was fashioned 

Fifteen centuries have passed 

O'er the castle by Lake Como, 

Where the good queen breathed her last; 

But the Crown is still at Monza, 

And its iron basic line 

Tells the world of human glory 

And the death of the Divine. 



CONTRASTS 

The wind is roaring down the lake, 

The clear, cold moon rides high, 

The mountains, crystal to their crests, 

Indent the starlit sky; 

The wild sea beats my garden-wall, 

And all its peace transforms ; 

Dear Heart, how different is the lake 

When swept by Alpine storms ! 

My soul to-night is dark and sad 
From proofs of hate displayed, 
From envy and rapacity, 
And kindness ill-repaid; 
The baseness of humanity 
Hath spoiled a cherished dream ; 
Dear Heart, how different is the lake 
When Evil reigns supreme! 

The gale hath blown itself to rest, 
The sun turns all to gold, 
Once more the crystal mountain-sides 
A waveless plain enfold ; 



CONTRASTS 53 

And some will laugh, and lightly say 
The storm hath left no stain, 
But in my park one perfect rose 
Will never bloom again ! 



IN MY PERGOLA 

Beyond the blue-robed, sleeping lake, 
I watch the flush of morning rise, 
While birds and flowers once more wake, 
To share with me my paradise. 



Within this waveless bay of rest 
The Alpine winds contend no more, 
But skim, like gulls, its dimpled breast, 
And sink to silence on its shore. 



The breath of dawn descends the hills, 
And round me, as I greet the day, 
I hear the lilt of laughing rills 
And songs of fountains at their play. 

Tall, whispering trees their shadows fling 
Athwart the trellised path I tread, 
And incense-breathing roses swing 
Their pendent censers o'er my head. 



IN MY PERGOLA 55 

What Moorish ceiling e'er excelled 
This arbor, roofed with cups of gold? 
What Eastern casket ever held 
The perfume which their leaves unfold? 

Fair chalices of bloom, swing low, 
And touch my lips with odors sweet ! 
Enfold me in your ardent glow, 
While petals flutter to my feet ! 

Let, for to-day, the dream remain 
That life is rose-hued, like this aisle, — 
A fragrant pathway, free from pain, 
With every sun-kissed flower a smile ! 



EVANESCENCE 

Passing ships! Passing ships! 
The white foam sparkling at your lips 
And countless jewels in your wake 
Proclaim your progress o'er the lake, 
While on your decks a smiling throng 
Surveys this realm of sun and song. 

Slipping by ! Slipping by ! 
O'er waves that duplicate the sky 
I watch you daily come and go, 
But rarely is there one I know 
Of all who at your railings stand, 
To view with joy this storied land. 

On ye pass! On ye pass! 
At times I follow through my glass 
Your silent course from sunset light 
To meet the dusky veil of night, 
As swiftly round the curving shore 
Glide faces I shall see no more. 



EVANESCENCE 57 

Sailing on ! Sailing on ! 
The transient voyagers now are gone; 
Yet though the hills their features hide, 
One memory of them will abide, — 
The thought of their enraptured gaze 
In this the gem of Larian bays. 

Gliding by! Gliding by! 
Why is it that I look, . . . and sigh ? 
What makes my heart thus vaguely yearn 
For strangers who will ne'er return? 
I would not really have them stay, 
Yet grieve to see them fade away. 

Hail-farewell ! Hail-farewell ! 
Those passing steamers seem to tell 
That all ships, whether slow or fast, 
Will cross life's little bay at last, 
While we who linger on the strand 
Must daily mourn some vanished hand. 



LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN 

From Como's curving base of blue, 
To where the snow lies cold and clear, 
Ascends in steps of varied hue 
The pageant of the passing year, 
As scores of mountain-sides unfold 
Their gorgeous robes of red and gold. 

Meanwhile, where shore and lake unite, 

I see, projected far below, 

A counterpart in colors bright, 

Of snows that gleam and woods that glow,- 

Two pictures of an ideal land, 

Divided by a single strand. 

matchless view, thus doubly fair, 
Impress thy beauty on my heart, 
That, when no longer really there, 

1 still may see thee as thou art! 
Alas, that they should ever go, — 

Those steps of light, those thrones of snow ! 



LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN 59 

The day declines, the colors pale, 
The peaks will soon be ashen gray; 
Yet, though the shades of night prevail, 
The darkness hath not come to stay ; 
And if no leaves of gold remain, 
The sun will bring the Spring again. 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON, AS 
FIRST CONSUL 

Painted by Andrea Appiani, in 1803, and at present 
in the Villa Melzi, Bellagio 

Brilliant as Lucifer, Son of the Morning, 
Rises this reincarnation of Mars! 
Youth at its apogee, precedent scorning, 
Genius ascending its path toward the stars ! 

Never was Bonaparte's Consular glory 
Treated by Art so superbly as here ; 
Never a phase of his marvellous story 
Handled more deftly, or rendered more clear. 

Italy's effigy lies 'neath his fingers, 
Lombardy rests in the fold of his hand, 
While on his lips an expression still lingers, 
Stamped by a character born to command. 

Hero of history, what art thou scheming, 
Spanning thus easily so much of Earth, 
Holding tenaciously, too, in thy dreaming 
Wave-beaten Corsica, isle of thy birth? 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON 61 

All that thou dreamest of paramount power 
Fate shall concede to thee, chieftain sublime ! 
Yet shall it prove but the joy of an hour; 
Fortune avenges her favors . . . with time ! 

Aye, even now, although millions adore thee, 
Hailing as godlike thy dominant name, 
Nemesis stands in the shadow before thee, 
Waiting with Waterloo, exile, and shame. 

Waiting is also that island of anguish, 
Destined to crush thy proud spirit at last, 
Doomed amid pigmy tormentors to languish, 
Facing forever its measureless past ! 

Yet when at length on that rock in mid-ocean 
Merciful Death shall have broken thy chain, 
Millions will hail thee again with devotion, 
Building thy tomb by the banks of the Seine ! 

Face of Napoleon, nobly recalling 

Days of the mythical heroes of yore, 

Oft wilt thou haunt me when shadows are 

falling, — 
Beautiful gem of the Larian shore. 



PASSING AND PERMANENT 

Stately boats, with happy crowds, 

Passing up the lake, 
Leaving, under sunset clouds, 

Jewels in your wake, 
From my garden's sheltered strand 

I can watch you glide, 
As through some enchanted land 

On a silver tide. 

To your eyes, O joyous throng, 

All this scene is new; 
Like a burst of seraphs' song, 

Comes its matchless view ; 
You have traversed land and sea 

For this wondrous sight, 
Which the gods vouchsafe to me 

Every day and night ! 

One long, serial pageant this 

Of supreme content ! 
Every face suffused with bliss, 

Every eye intent; 



PASSING AND PERMANENT 63 

Griefs and troubles slip away 

On this charming shore, 
And throughout a transient stay 

Will return no more. 

Yet beware ! Gardens fair, 

Lake, and snow-capped crest 
For a while may banish care 

From the saddest breast ; 
But it quickly, even here, 

Finds the heart again, 
With the old-time sigh and tear, 

And the well-known pain. 

Careless crew, I envy you! 

You will grieve to go, 
But, believe me, if you knew, 

You would choose it so ; 
Leave the lake while still you laugh ; 

Be content to pass; 
Though its wine be sweet to quaff, 

Do not drain your glass! 



TRIPOLI 

Hear the singing on the boats, 
As they halt beside the pier! 
Ah, those fresh Italian throats, 

How they cheer! 
Yet the words they sing so loud 
Bring depression to my heart, 
As I watch the youthful crowd 

Thus depart. 

" We are going o'er the sea! 
Loyal sons of Italy, 
We are bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli!" 

See that lad of twenty years, 
Who is stretching out his hand 
Toward his mother there in tears 

On the strand! 
Should he perish in the strife 
Under Afric's burning sky, 
There were nothing left in life — 

She must die. 



TRIPOLI 65 

Yet he's going o'er the sea! 
At the call of Italy, 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

Now the plank is pulled to land, 
And the last farewell is o'er, 
As the steamer, at command, 

Leaves the shore; 
There are shouts and ringing cheers, 
For the boys are brave and strong, 
Yet one feels that there are tears 

In their song: 

" We are going o'er the sea ! 
Loyal sons of Italy, 
We are bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli!" 

Ah, that mother who is left ! 
She is weeping now alone, 
Like a Niobe bereft 

Of her own; 
And at length I dare to speak 
To the woman seated there, 
With the tears upon her cheek, 

In despair. 



66 TRIPOLI 

He has gone across the sea ! 
Who so dutiful as he ? 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" Nay, good mother, do not weep ! 
Since the summons comes from Rome, 
Can we really wish to keep 

Sons at home ? " 
"And why not? " she made reply; 
" We have no invading foe ; 
I would send my son to die, 

Were it so." 

But he's gone across the sea ! 
Gone with thousands such as he ! 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" What is Africa to me, 
If it swallow up my child ? 
What care I for Tripoli, 

Spot defiled! 
Did not Abyssinian sand 
Drink sufficiently our gore? 
Must we stain that fatal strand, 

As before ? " 



TRIPOLI 67 

Yet he's gone across the sea, 
Who more valorous than he ? 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" Have we no great uses here 
For the millions we outpour? 
Are our consciences quite clear 

In this war? 
Are there no more roads to build, 
Schools to found, and farms to work, 
That we let our boys be killed 

By the Turk?" 

Yet we send them o'er the sea ! 
Youthful sons of Italy, 
They are bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

" We are hungry, yet behold, 
How the price of food goes higher! 
And the nights will soon be cold 

Without fire! 
Who will earn for me my bread ? 
Who my little home will save, 
When he lies there cold and dead 

In his grave? " 



68 TRIPOLI 

But he's gone across the sea ! 
Who so good and kind to me ? 
He is bound for Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

To the churchyard, near the bay, 
Went the mother in her grief, 
For her soul was moved to pray 

For relief; 
And deep sobs convulsed her breast, 
As she knelt upon the sod, 
Where her husband lay at rest, 

Safe in God. 

For the boy was o'er the sea, 
Whom she rocked upon her knee ; 
He had gone to Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

She was buried yesterday 
With her husband, side by side ; 
Ere two months had passed away 

She had died! 
For one morning she had read 
Of her son among the slain, 
And they saw her old gray head 

Sink in pain. 



TRIPOLI 69 

Nevermore across the sea 
Will he come to Italy! 
He was killed in Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

There was nothing more to tell 

Of a lad so little known; 

He was reckoned " one who fell," 

That alone. 
Was he wounded? Did he lie 
Long ill-treated by the foe? 
Happy mother ! thus to die, 

And not know! 

Yes, he lies beyond the sea ! 
(Can it be that that is he?) 
In the sands of Tripoli, 
Tripoli ! 

She had asked for nothing more, 
But in silence slowly failed, 
Dreaming ever of the shore, 

Whence he sailed. 
Till her face, so wan and white, 
Flushed at last with sweet surprise, 
And a strangely tender light 

Filled her eyes. 



7 o TRIPOLI 



Then for her was " no more sea ' 
She had found the soul set free 
From the sands of Tripoli, 
Tripoli! 



LEO 

I made a journey o'er the sea, 
I bade my faithful dog good-bye, 
I knew that he would grieve for me, 
But did not dream that he would die ! 
And how could I explain 
That I would come again ? 

At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn 
A life-long master they adore, 
Till in his mind the fear was born 
That he should never see me more. 

Ah! then, on every boat intent, 
He watched the crowd upon the pier, 
While every look and motion meant 
" Will he not come ? Is he not here ? " 

At last he merely raised his head, 
To see the steamers passing by, 
Then sank again upon his bed, 
And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh ; 
For how could one explain 
That I would come again? 



72 LEO 

I hastened back by sea and land, 
Forced homeward by remorse and fear; 
But no glad barking swept the strand, 
Nor did he meet me on the pier ! 

I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet, 
And then beheld him near the wall, 
Though tottering, still upon his feet, 
And creeping toward me down the hall. 

No wish had he to sulk or blame, 
Nor did he need to understand, 
But simply loved me just the same, — •• 
In silence licking face and hand. 

In silence ? What could this portend ? 
Such muteness he had never shown ; 
Was he so very near the end ? 
Ah, Leo, had I only known ! 

For his grand eyes, so large and bright, 
Though turned, through sound, my form to 

find, 
Were totally devoid of sight; 
He faced me in the darkness . . . blind ! 

What could such gloom have been to him, 
As weeks and months had crept away, 
While all the outer world grew dim, 
Till endless night eclipsed the day! 



LEO 73 

What had it meant to him to wake 
And mid familiar things to grope? 
To hear old sounds on shore and lake, 
Yet wander darkly without hope! 

But now, his head upon my knee, 
He tried in various ways to show 
That, though my face he could not see, 
He knew the voice of long ago. 

Yes, now it was quite plain 

That I had come again. 

Within my arms he breathed his last, 
In my embrace his noble head 
Drooped back, and left to me . . . the Past, 
With tender memories of the dead. 



He lies beneath the stately trees, 
Whose ample shade he loved the best, 
Mid flowers, whose perfume every breeze 
Wafts lightly o'er his place of rest. 

Yet somehow still I watch and wait 
For him, as he once watched for me; 
At every footstep near my gate 
I look, his bounding form to see. 



74 LEO 

In vain ! he cornea not ; one friend more 
Has reached his ultimate repose ; 
Again I see Death's curtained door 
Upon another comrade close ! 
And who can make it plain 
That we shall meet again? 



VILLA PLINIANA 

It stands where darkly wooded cliffs 

Slope swiftly to the deep, 

And silvery streams from ledge to ledge 

In foaming splendor leap, — 

A broad expanse of saffron walls, 

A wilderness of mouldering halls. 

The torrent's breath hath spread its blight 
On every darkened room, 
And oozing mosses drip decay 
Through corridors of gloom, 
While Ruin lays a subtle snare 
On many a yielding rail and stair. 

There seats, which beauty once enthroned, 

In tattered damask stand ; 

In gray neglect a faun extends 

A mutilated hand ; 

And silence makes the festal board 

Mute as the stringless harpsichord. 



76 VILLA PLINIANA 

The boldest hesitate to tread 
Those gruesome courts at night; 
'Tis whispered that a spectral form 
Then haunts the lonely height ; 
For he who built this home apart 
Had stabbed his rival to the heart. 



Oblivion's boon is vainly sought 
Amid those scenes sublime; 
Forever lurked within his breast 
The nemesis of crime; 
Not all that flood of limpid spray 
Could wash the fatal stain away. 

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt 

Within that haunted pile; 

Among them she, whose portrait still, 

With enigmatic smile, 

Lights up the mansion, like a gem 

Set in a tarnished diadem; — 

The princess, at whose thrilling call 

Unnumbered patriots rose 

To drive from fettered Lombardy 

Her immemorial foes, — 

A woman, loved from sea to sea, 

As Liberty's divinity. 



VILLA PLINIANA 77 

But now the old, historic site 

Lives only in the past; 

Neglected and untenanted, 

Its life is ebbing fast; 

Each crumbling step, each mossy stone 

Is marked by Ruin for her own. 

Yet one mysterious charm abides, — 
The spring, whose ebb and flow 
Were praised in Pliny's classic prose 
Two thousand years ago, — 
A fountain, whose perennial grace 
Millenniums could not efface. 

Thrice daily in their polished cup 

Its crystal waters sink ; 

Thrice daily do they rise again 

And overflow the brink, — 

Since Pliny's day no more, no less, 

Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness. 

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, 

Cascade, and storied spring, 

Ye are the same as when he loved 

Your varied charms to sing; 

'Tis man alone who sadly goes ! 

The lake remains, the fountain flows. 



78 VILLA PLINIANA 

Like drops in its exhaustless flood, 

Our little lives emerge, 

Swirl for an instant, and are gone, 

Sunk by another surge! 

Whence come they ? Whither do they go ? 

O Roman poet, dost thou know ? 



FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 

Good-night, sweet Faun ! the dusk is falling, 

The crescent moon is in the sky, 

The vesper bell is softly calling, 

And I have come to say . . . Good-bye ! 



Alas, how often, — for I love thee, — 
Shall I remember thee, when gone! 
How often see the leaves above thee 
Grow radiant with the flush of dawn ! 



Or fancy how thy form is shining 
Against the ancient, ivied wall, 
And think, at many a day's declining, 
How twilight shadows round thee fall ! 



Will those who soon may here succeed me 
Sit near thee in the sunset light ? 
Will they, in passing, pause to heed thee, 
And whisper, as I do, " Good-night " ? 



80 FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 

Good-night ? . . . Good-bye ! for I must leave 

thee, 
My boat is waiting on the shore; 
May I not hope that it will grieve thee, 
When thou shalt see me here no more ? 



Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted ; 
" Have statues souls? " the cynic sneers; 
But I am happier to have doubted, 
And loved thee thus these many years. 



Behind the form is the ideal, 
Forever high, forever true ; 
Behind the false exists the real, 
Known only to the favored few. 



Not all can hear the music stealing 
From out that lightly-lifted flute; 
To those devoid of kindred feeling 
Its melody is always mute. 



But thou to me hast been a token 
Of classic legend, wrought in stone; 
In thee the thread of Art, unbroken, 
Made all the storied past mine own. 



FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 81 

And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee, 
The old-time Genius of the Place, 
Aware of those who still adore thee, 
Unchanged by time, or creed, or race. 

Through thee came also inspiration 

For many a rare, poetic thought ; 

And oh, how much of resignation 

Thy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught ! 

Though thine own past hath had its sorrow, 
Though all thy sylvan friends have fled, 
Thou still canst smile at every morrow, 
For Nature lives, though Pan is dead. 

Thou didst not grieve with futile wailing 
When altars crumbled far and near, 
When gods were scoffed, and faith was failing, 
And worship lessened year by year. 

Above thee still rose lofty mountains, 
Before thee lay the lake divine, 
Around thee sang the crystal fountains, — 
With all these treasures, why repine ? 

Religions changed, and shrines were banished, 
Years slipped away, men came and went, 
But thou, whatever pleasures vanished, 
With what thou hadst wast still content. 



82 FAREWELL TO THE FAUN 

Not thine our fatal strain of sadness, 
As cherished fancies fade away; 
For thee the simple soul of gladness,- 
The careless rapture of to-day ! 

Farewell ! within my heart abiding 
I hear thy music, gentle Faun, — 
The wounds of disillusion hiding, 
The prelude to a happier dawn. 



POINT BALBIANELLO 

From Lake Como's depths ascending, 

With embankments steep 

Stands a wooded headland, bending 

With majestic sweep 

Till its rugged shores, expanding, 

Join two charming bays, 

Now, as formerly, commanding 

Universal praise. 



Years ago a papal Primate 

Built a hospice here, 

Which, from its delightful climate, 

Mild throughout the year, 

Soon became for convalescence 

A renowned retreat, 

Where pure air and strict quiescence 

Made all cures complete. 



"Villa Balbi ",— appellation 
Of the Primate's seat — . 



84 POINT BALBIANELLO 

Gave its name to this location 

In a form more sweet, — 

Soft, sonorous " Balbianello ", 

Spoken, as if sung 

In the speech, so smooth and mellow, 

Of the Latin tongue. 

Balbianello, Balbianello ! 

Point of liquid name, 

With thy walls of golden yellow 

And thy flowers of flame, 

When thy varied charms enthrall me 

Under summer skies, 

Tenderly I love to call thee 

Como's Paradise. 

From thy base, where in profusion 

Countless roses bloom, 

To thy crest, where sweet seclusion 

Reigns in leafy gloom, 

All is beauty, uncontested 

By a rival claim, 

All is symmetry invested 

With a storied fame. 



Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, 
Which thy slopes ascend; 



POINT BALBIANELLO 85 

Grand the loggia, old and faded, 
Where those pathways end; — 
Noble arches, well recalling 
Mighty works of old, 
Columns which, when night is falling, 
Turn to shafts of gold. 

In that loggia, fringed with roses, 
All my soul expands ; 
Every arch a view discloses 
Of historic lands ; 
Southward lies fair Comacina, 
Famed in classic lore, 
Northward Pliny's Tremezzina 
And Bellagio's shore. 

Miles of liquid opalescence 

Stretch on either hand, 

Curving into lovely crescents, 

Each with sylvan strand; 

While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping 

Realms of stainless snow, 

Whence the milk-white streams come leaping 

To the lake below. 

Many a far-off promontory 
Melts in silvery haze, 



86 POINT BALBIANELLO 

Many a scene of song and story 

Tells of Roman days ; 

Real and unreal, past and present, 

Make the vision seem 

Like the rapture evanescent 

Of a happy dream. 

Yet this point, so well selected, — 

Peerless in its day — , 

Now, abandoned and neglected, 

Sinks to slow decay; 

Sculptured saints, with broken ringers, 

Line the ancient walls, 

Like a loyal guard that lingers 

Till the rampart falls ; 

Vases, o'er the portal standing, 

Crumble into lime ; 

Steps, ascending from the landing, 

Show the touch of time ; 

And its one lone gardener, weeping 

As he tells his fears, 

Faithful watch has here been keeping 

Many, many years! 



Even he must leave it lonely, 
When the night grows late ; 



POINT BALBIANELLO 87 

Then the mouldering statues only- 
Guard its rusty gate ; 
Then no eye its charm discovers, 
And its moonlit bowers 
Wait in vain for happy lovers 
Through the silent hours. 

Will no champion protect thee, 
Fairest spot on earth ? 
Doth a busy world neglect thee, 
Careless of thy worth? 
Even so, thy site elysian 
Still remains supreme, — 
Acme of the painter's vision 
And the poet's dream. 



RETIREMENT 

Spirit of solitude, silence, and rest, 
Take me once more, like a child, to your breast ! 
Weary of worldliness, turmoil, and hate, 
Welcome me back, if it be not too late, 
Back to the realm of ideals and dreams, 
Hush of the forest and cadence of streams ! 

What have I found in life's whirlpool of haste? 

Pitiful poverty, limitless waste, 

Sad disillusionments, losses of friends, 

Treacherous methods for fraudulent ends, 

Idle frivolity, senseless display, 

Youth without reverence, faith in decay. 

Gladly I turn from the roar of the crowd, 
Hand of the beggar, and purse of the proud, 
Gladly go back to the humming of bees, 
Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees, 
Gladly dispense with the voices of men, 
Thankful to hear only Nature again. 



RETIREMENT 8c 

Out from the mob with its furious pace 

Into the cool, quiet reaches of space; 

Rid of Society's glittering chains, 

Fleeing a prison and finding the plains ; 

Far from the clangor of murderous cars, 

Losing the limelight, but gaining . . . the stars ! 

Others may live in the turbulent throng, 
Others may struggle to rectify wrong, 
Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay, 
I too have striven and laughed in my day ; 
But of life's blessings I crave now the best, — 
Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest. 



AT LENNO 

By Lake Como's sylvan shore, 
Where the wavelets evermore 
Seem to rhythmically murmur of the classic days of 
yore, 

Cease, O boatman, now to row ! 
While the Alpine summits glow, 
Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long 
ago. 

Where the Tremezzina ends, 
And the bay of Lenno bends 
Till the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave 
descends, 

On this strand of silver foam 
Stood the Younger Pliny's home, 
When the world at last lay subject to the dominance 
of Rome. 



Here he passed his sweetest hours 
'Mid his statues, books, and flowers 
With a life and list of pleasures not dissimilar to ours. 



AT LENNO 91 

For the city's rush and roar 
Never reached this tranquil shore, 
And his writings prove completely that he yearned for 
them no more. 

Here, as scholar, poet, sage, 
He rilled many a pliant page 
With the philosophic wisdom and refinement of his 
age, 

And his letters to his peers 
Through a life of smiles and tears 
Make me often quite forgetful of the intervening 
years ; 

For the beauty of the bay 
And the magical display 
Of its coronet of mountains have not altered since his 
day, 

And the lake of which he wrote 
At that epoch so remote 
With the same caressing murmur laps my undulating 
boat. 

Hence the subtle, tender spell 
Of the place he loved so well 
Holds me captive and enchanted, as these waters 
gently swell, 



92 AT LENNO 

And a vague and nameless pain 
Makes me long for, — though in vain — , 
That delightful classic era, which will never come 
again. 

Since the Goths' invading tide 
Wrecked Rome's potency and pride, 
Something wonderful has vanished, something ex- 
quisite has died; 

And in spite of modern fame 
And the lustre of its name, 
Even beautiful Lake Como can be never quite the 
same. 

So beside its sylvan shore, 
Where the wavelets evermore 
Seem to rythmically murmur of the classic days of 
yore, 

Cease, O boatman, now to row! 
For, while Alpine summits glow, 
I would dream that I am floating on the lake of long 
ago. 










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